Roads That Lead Everywhere Or Nowhere
by tielan
Summary: Two men reconcile their feelings for Gwen. Episode epilogue for 2x04 - Lancelot And Guinevere.


**Roads That Lead To Everywhere Or Nowhere**

"To love is to risk not being loved in return.  
To hope is to risk pain.  
To try is to risk failure,  
but risk must be taken  
because the greatest hazard in life  
is to risk nothing."

--

All the way back to the road that will lead him out towards the borderlands, Lancelot tells himself he did the right thing. His feet ache but not as much as his heart.

He remembers the way she sat in the hall of thieves and honourless men, her face brightened at the sight of him through the grate, the taste of her kiss - hurried gratitude. And he will never forget.

Nor will he forget the prince's expression when asked how he had gained his father's approval to rescue a servant girl. The slow realisation that no permission was granted, no sanctions given - that Arthur was here, not on his father's behalf, but on his own.

What does Lancelot have to offer Gwen by comparison?

A wanderering sword's life - no home, no shelter, only what barns and stables were offered to someone willing to use his sword in defence of a village against raiders. Employment as a man-at-arms would provide a living, but those positions are coveted and often given to those who already known to current soldiers. A stranger wandering into a castle's keep is less likely to find a position - no matter how good he is with a sword.

As he pauses by a felled tree, thick draperies of moss covering it like a shroud, Lancelot questions if he was right to walk away.

Yet if Gwen made a promise never to forget him, she spoke no other promises either. She claimed she had thought of him, but that was not the same as love. She had kissed him, yes, but the fear of death brought a desire for closeness to life and the acts that could bring life. Lancelot was no stripling boy; he knew.

Her response had been gratefulness to a rescuer, not love for him, Lancelot. Perhaps there might have been more in time, had time been granted to them.

And yet there is Arthur, who defied his father to come to find Gwen - no matter what he said of the Lady Morgana. His coming is a valiant gesture, foolhardy perhaps, but wholehearted. Whatever else might be said of the prince, he has a good heart.

No, it is best. He will not come between them, no matter how his heart clenches in his breast.

And so Lancelot toils on through the forest, step after weary step until he crests a hill that leads down to the road. A lordly retinue of ladies, knights, servants, and soldiers trail along it, bright banners beneath the rising sun. He increases his pace although weariness nips at his heels.

He will live as he promised Gwen - a life worthy of himself and of her. She will not know - may never know, but he will and he will hold himself worthy of her love, even if the absence of her hurts.

Lancelot ignores the pang of lost love, lost hope, and walks down the hill towards a future without Gwen.

--

All the ride back, Arthur sits ramrod straight in the saddle, his chin lifted high as befits a prince of Camelot. His spine aches, but not as much as his chest.

He remembers the way she smiled at Lancelot in the tunnel, the steady look of apology she gave him by the campfire, the loss on her face when she discovered Lancelot missing. He wishes he could forget.

He wishes he could forget that for a few moments this morning, standing at the edge of their camp, seeing her tears over Lancelot's departure, he wanted to ride out after the other man and beat him senseless for hurting her, for leaving her.

What man leaves a woman like Guinever behind?

Not Arthur Pendragon.

But Arthur Pendragon is not the man Guinevere wants.

_Nothing could ever have happened_. If he says it often enough, maybe he'll come to believe it. _I'm a prince. She's just a servant. I have responsibilities, duties to my father, to our people._

He drills it into his mind as his sword-fighting instructors used to drill him, over and over again. He sets the words to the rhythm of his horse's hooves against the damp spring ground. He reminds himself that Morgana really _did_ want him to come after Guinevere.

If his heart would listen, it would help. But all he has is the sick feeling of betrayal in his gut; like she took a sword and thrust it through his belly.

_I said it couldn't happen. We made no promises._

He's not even sure this is what he thinks it is - a confused mélange of feelings that range from warmth at the twitching corners of her smile to a tightness in his chest when he thinks that he'll never be allowed more from her than that one kiss.

Behind him, Merlin's talking as he walks besides her horse - chattering, actually. Inconsequential things to fill the silence, since Guinevere is barely responding.

Arthur looks back once and wishes he hadn't.

She's looking down at Merlin, who's telling her about the gaia berries with considerably better humour than he took the actual incident. Although the grief she's worn all day is still there on her face, plain to see, Arthur gets the impression that Merlin's chatter is lifting her spirits. And he suddenly wishes it was him looking up at her with that hopeful, slightly foolish grin.

As though she senses his gaze on her, she looks up, and the shadowy smile that had hovered about her a moment dies.

Arthur ignores the grip of iron bands around his chest, crushing what little hope he ever cherished, and looks hurried and firmly away.

--

"Hope is the worst of evils, for it prolongs the torments of man."

~ Friedrich Nietzche ~


End file.
